A Mother's Choice
by Hedhurien
Summary: No words have ever been written that are befitting of a parent's sundering from their child. But sometimes words unwritten must be found in the heart by those who most need it. Galadriel and Celeborn now must.


**A/N:** Winner of the 1st Writer's Fanfiction Challenge at :Tales of Arda:. If you wish for a reply to your review, please leave me an email address or email me directly.

**Disclaimer**: Unfortunately, Middle-Earth and its places, people, etc. all belong to Tolkien and his estate and so on. I've nothing to do with it, much as I would like to say I do...

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_**A Mother's Choice**_

"Naneth?"

My daughter's quiet voice breaks through my reverie, for I had been so deep in thought that I had never heard her approach me. I turn to face her, and I am struck by how she has changed. Pain etches her delicate features, once so carefree and light and now weighed down by a darkness that has become present long before its time. Her slight frame is now dangerously thin, veiled under a long, flowing gown that should fit her much better than it does. I pause for a moment before I rise from my place to embrace her.

"Yes, iell nin?" I murmur to her.

"Naneth, I…" She pauses, and I draw back to watch her face. Something is not right; I can sense it, and I don't need the waves of my Mirror to tell me this. "Naneth… I must leave."

I frown, for I cannot see why she should be so upset. "Of course. But you only came to Lorien three days past; surely you can remain longer," I tell her.

She shakes her head. "I don't mean just leaving Lorien," she whispers. "I mean to leave – forever. I can take this no longer; the darkness continues to envelop me, and where once I took delight, I now see only shadow. My children are grown; Elrond will raise them to the best of his ability. I cannot doubt that. But as much as I cannot bear to leave them, staying will only kill me faster."

She says this, but somewhere within it, I lose her entirely. I can't think… I can't feel… I can't see… Everything around me becomes horribly muted, like looking through a gray lens, the once vibrant colors awash in darkness. The world continues on its mad journey as though mine hasn't stopped entirely. I am watching life from a distance – through a long, drawn-out, tortuous tunnel that obstructs my vision. Glimpses I see, the flashes of what life was, not five minutes ago. Now, if feels like years – decades, even – since I saw light, since I was a living, functioning person, and not just one living on autopilot, afraid to think too much for fear of losing control. Nothing registers – life flows over my head, as though I'm trapped underwater, the currents racing over me as I try to see through the veil of ever-moving cadence above, but never can it look as reality should. Always twisting, always moving – never will it be the same.

And then my husband appears behind me, for somewhere in the course of my shock, I managed to give Celebrían a clear enough answer to gain an excuse to leave. I stand in the balcony of our talan, and he turns me towards him.

"What is it?" he asks me. "Why do you weep? What has happened?"

I lean against him, trying to find a way to explain. I find no better way to say it, and so I tell him the truth. "Celebrían is leaving; we are losing our daughter to Valinor."

"What?" He breathes out the word in singular shock. I cannot blame him. "What do you mean?"

"Just what I said," I whisper. "I can see the darkness that tries to enclose her; I never thought it was strong enough to defeat her. But it seems I was wrong, for she is losing strength. She is losing her light – her will to remain in this world. Perhaps the passage will be good for her. She is just taking my heart with her."

"No," he protests weakly. "She is so young; she is strong enough to fight."

"Not if she no longer desires to remain," I answer, for despite my own pain, I begin to realize that keeping her from passing will only harm her more. "There is only so much that we can do," I admit. "And I think we've reached that limit and more."

We both begin to weep, leaning against one another and taking what comfort we can give. But neither of us notice the knock on the door, and our daughter's soft voice finds us once again.

"Naneth? Ada?"

She steps onto the balcony, hesitant, but we both turn and draw her into our embrace, for she is and will remain our daughter, whether here or across the Sea, and somehow, somewhere, I know that I will find the heart to rejoice for her. Because I shall see her again, when our time here is spent. And our family will be reunited once more.


End file.
